


The Journey to Jorts

by glitter_bitch



Category: How to Make Jorts | BDG
Genre: Blood, How-to, but like, i can't stress how non-horny this is, i did my best to remove him if that makes sense, jorts, not really brian david gilbert, you'll see - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-10
Updated: 2019-05-10
Packaged: 2020-02-29 08:20:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18774829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glitter_bitch/pseuds/glitter_bitch
Summary: make your own jorts (jean shorts) in two easy steps!





	The Journey to Jorts

**Author's Note:**

> Meant to be a companion piece to the video, which you can watch here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Sx3ORAO1Y6s&t=39s

The Jeans are in the drawer. The Jeans are whole. Sure, The Jeans might have a little foxing around the hem, the beginning wisps of fraying threads at the knees, but The Jeans are complete.

The summer weather is coming, and quickly. Despite what the breeze and overcast skies may say, heat waves are imminent, and even she would say that you are nothing if not resourceful. This will be the first summer without her.

The cat has been acting strangely since she left. He never wants to be held anymore, his straining barely contained by your grasp. When you release him, he falls with a thud much louder than is reasonable for a creature his size.

He likes to sit and watch the painting, and you’ve taken to it as well. You move it frequently for that express purpose. You must be moving it, for how else could it always be wherever you are, just off the side, just indiscreet enough. A hotel painting, she called it, and you had agreed. Nothing much to see, but pretty to look at. No, she had replied, there’s more to it than that.

It has been months since the divorce, and the emails have finally stopped. You don’t remember her leaving, but you remember her being there, and you remember her being gone. That was the thing about Sandra, she brought change. And since she isn’t here anymore, you are going to have to make your own change.

The Jeans are inanimate, so The Jeans can’t sense the shift in your attitude towards them. The Jeans do not know what is to come, for The Jeans have no thoughts at all. The Jeans can’t feel the cold surface of the tabletop underneath, nor can The Jeans hear the soft rasping of grinding metal above.

You press the fabric lightly to the table with one hand, and hold the scissors in the other, you tap along the length of the leg, exploring possible new lengths. A rebirth, you think, snapping the scissors open and shut, how poetic. Something Hempstead Snarlton would be proud of. Sandra was always critical of your taste in literature, particularly Snarlton. She would always say that he was… that he was… you screw your eyes shut trying to remember her disdainful remark, the one that always made you more angry than it should have. You can’t remember, but it doesn’t matter. Letting out a pent-up breath you shrug at no one. There is no one here to shrug at except the cat.

A sharp pain in your finger brings you back to your apartment, back to your task. Quickly raising the digit to your mouth you notice the small red splotches now dotting The Jeans. Oh no. You’ll have to make this up to The Jeans. The Jeans don’t deserve this.

The train is surprisingly empty, allowing the two of you all the space you could wish. At another time, it would have been Sandra sitting beside you and not The Jeans, but as you think about it, The Jeans might actually be better company. At least you know that The Jeans are silent because The Jeans cannot talk.

The Jeans don’t react to Coney Island. The Jeans don’t react to the ocean. The Jeans are inanimate. The Jeans cannot react. That sharp tug backwards? Only the wind, the wind that attempts to make you forget the sunny days on the horizon. The imminent change.

The Jeans don’t react to the song you have composed. The Jeans are much like Sandra in that respect. The cat is in the room, unbothered by your almost mindless dancing, intently staring at the painting, never blinking. When he gets up to leave, he takes a noticeable detour around The Jeans.

Sandra hated your laundry routine. Obsessive, she called it. You had a machine, might as well put it to good use. You scrub a little harder with the toothbrush, and the corner of your eye twitches slightly. Your smile strains slightly. The painting is above the toilet, giving you an excellent view. Pointless, she had said. You scrub harder. Needlessly complex, she had said. You scrub harder. Unreal, she had said. That was it! Unreal. Snarlton was unreal. No, not unreal. Not real. Snarlton was not real. Sandra said that Snarlton was not real. Sandra said that Snarlton was made up, figment. Sandra said-

The cat’s tail brushes against your leg and you start, dropping the toothbrush in the bathtub. There’s blood on your gloves, and you take them off and there’s blood on your hands. The bathtub is stained red, and The Jeans are lying, crumpled and sopping in a puddle of pinkish liquid. You throw down the gloves and head to the kitchen. You pass the painting in the hallway on your way out.

The chair isn’t the most comfortable, but it’s facing the right direction, so you don’t mind. The cat is on the floor next to you, gazing at the painting with a simmering intensity. You don’t know when your gaze shifted from its calming palette to The Jeans, drying in the tub. Sandra said you never did appreciate art, you never did understand it. If the scrawled figures on your bedroom wall could be considered art of any kind, you guess she was right. They don’t worry you, though. They’re black, not red like the tub. Not red like your hands, despite the dozens of times you had washed them. Obsessive, Sandra would have said. Not real, Sandra would have said.

A flicker of movement. The Jeans flap on the drying rack in the stained bathtub. You glance down at the cat, still sitting beside you, motionless. The windows are not open. Shaking you stand, and grab The Jeans, harshly, cruelly, tossing them into a closet to be forgotten. To be forgotten like Sandra’s criticisms, like Sandra’s silence, like Sandra. Sandra. Sandra. San-

You start awake at the sound of a slamming door. The painting hangs high on the opposite wall, sloppily covering what it can of the symbols, the squirming black symbols. Distant footsteps mix with Sandra’s dissonant whispers. Obsessive Sandra. Pointless Sandra. Not Real Sandra. The footsteps are closer now, louder now, as you flip a switch, shedding light on the painting hanging in the living room. You think you can make out the cat staring, staring into the dark, but your vision is blurred by the murmuring. _Not Real Not Real Not Real Not Real_

The cut on your finger pangs, and a shape darts across the room. _NotReal NotReal NotReal NotReal NotReal_

The Jeans turn toward you. _NOTREALNOTREALNOTREALNOTREALNOTREAL_

The Jeans dart forward and-

The pant legs slide off the table, dragged down by their own weight, and the sudden separation. The cat jumps out of the way of the falling fabric, and resumes his watch. The jeans, or jorts now, you suppose are pressed close to the table by your free hand. You glance up at the painting, and the whole thing reminds you of a poem. Something about spring. You can’t remember who wrote it.

**Author's Note:**

> My first attempt at horror/surrealism!  
> Leave a Kudos/Comment if you enjoyed!  
> <3


End file.
